Ruby-crowned kinglet

 November 29, 2021

Dream before morning: Some dastardly crime was committed against me, and people came to me and said that if I didn’t protest or bring anyone to court, it would be all right, that everything would be made well. I shut my mouth and let it pass. One day a young man showed up, Hispanic, I guess, with beautiful liquid eyes and a gentle manner. Without any particular conversation between us, he began to accompany me everywhere, help me with daily tasks, be at my side. People noticed him, but hesitated to ask who he was or what he was to me. I wouldn’t have been able to tell them, except that his name was Angel (AnHEL) and that he anticipated what I needed and helped me with it. He slipped a credit card out of my wallet and bought groceries. He bought what he was used to rather than what I was, so the table was laid with exotic delicacies. I made up the guest room for him (in a house that was not this house) but he slept with me, holding me in his arms until I fell asleep. It was a beautiful dream. I was glad I waited for blessing instead of insisting on justice. 

Noon: Set out walking from Bad Fork south (and up) on the MST. It was too cold, and I never warmed up so as to prolong the walk the way I wanted. But two ruby-crowned kinglets gladdened the path side as I passed. I’d never seen them so close before. They instantly became, for a day anyway, my favorite bird. Not one person on the trail with me, no joggers, no dogs walking with their owners. Just the kinglets and two pileateds and I. The swelling of my feet makes boots impossible, and the sneakers I must therefore wear convey the cold and the edge of every root and stone into my foot. But, gasping and ouching and leaning on the cane, one moves forward. 

Advent

 

November 28, 2021

First Sunday of Advent.

Israel closed its borders Saturday, in response to new Covid cases. That means that either we would have been turned back at Ben Gurion, or we would have been put in quarantine. Perhaps we would have had trouble getting back into the USA. In any case, the Holy Spirit was brooding over our journey, and ended it before a series of potential disasters.   

 

November 26, 2021

At about this hour I would have been packing up the Prius for the journey to the airport in Charlotte. Extremely high winds here; if there too, the flight might have been cancelled anyway. I’m both in mourning and not. I’m glad to be sitting here with coffee rather than beginning a 20 hour travel ordeal. But. . . Jerusalem. . . .

Peaceful Thanksgiving. I made a roast, and out of it the most delicious gravy I’ve ever tasted. Watched TV until the wee hours without guilt, knowing that today– which would have been spent rushing anxiously from one place to another–could be full of achievement.

2:30: Given my need to be early, I’d be at the airport now, looking around for something to do until it was time to board. 

The items I ordered for the trip– slacks and a foldable cane– did not arrive. 

 

November 24, 2021

The Arbery murderers found guilty. Sigh of relief for the soul of the country.

Tall Masai-resembling Jeremi cleaned my gutters and installed leaf guards. 

Dan Jones sends news reports of the terror attacks in Jerusalem that ended our journey. Eliyahu Kay, a South African immigrant, was one who was murdered.

 

November 23, 2021

Disoriented after the blunt change of plans. But a clench has relaxed in my stomach, which was the dread of this voyage, both subconscious and inexplicable. 

Returned my shekels to Wells Fargo. Lost $50 on that transaction. 

Tolkien’s Beorn-resembling Ryan arrived from Leaf Guard, to convince me to replace my gutters and put those little roofs on them so they don’t fill up with pine needles. I had decided to do it before he arrived, so when he pulled out a thick notebook chocked with transparencies explaining the various excellencies of the product, I literally begged him to skip the sales pitch and get to the price. This he could not do. He said he’d “hit only the highlights,” but you could tell it was agony for him to edit out even a fragment of his long and, in this case, unnecessary speech. I was frantic with impatience. It reminded me more than a little of the process of acquiring a new Dean at the cathedral. Some want to get to the task. Some want to wallow and languish in the preliminaries. People who feel pushed never consider that they have been an impediment. So, I heard the whole spiel, and can lecture on the difference among the roughly 50 ways of installing covered gutters offered by Ryan’s competitors. Somewhat to my surprise, the actual workers are not so leisurely, and intend to arrive tomorrow. I got discounts because 1) I’m old and 2) I didn’t care if they did the work the day before Thanksgiving. 

Cancellation

 

November 22, 2021

Cold day. What winter will be. 

The most interesting item is that the State Department has raised the threat level in Israel to 4 after intensifying Hamas attacks on the Old City, and Bishop Jose has cancelled our trip. I’m still looking at the email with stupefaction. So much of my energy in recent weeks has been directed to this, remembering fondly my first journey there, getting the right COVID documentation, printing out directions to Charlotte Douglas, buying needful items, preparing myself psychologically. I admit that anxiety prompted me to wish, on several occasions, for exactly this outcome, though I expected COVID to be my savior rather than bombardment. The last emotion before the email was elation and excitement, so I am devastated. I may be relieved as the hours go by, though that time is not yet reached. The projects I thought would end temporarily Thursday night stretch again into the future.

 

November 21, 2021

Christ the King

Smiling at myself for FB messaging V, who was the handsomest man at Hiram College when I was a freshman.

Last night was dark. I prayed the most desperate prayer I ever prayed, even more desperate than praying to die. 

 

November 20, 2021

Scraped half a ton of pine needles out of the pond. 

Maud came to me and solicited affection, which she got in double measure. 

The DC holds back the Parish Profile for reasons of their own, after the Vestry was told Monday night it would appear the next day and we had only 2 or 3 days to appraise it before the December 1 deadline. The Committee has had twenty months to do–Lord forgive me– what could have been done in a weekend by people wedded to the task. I would like once for the discussion of an issue not to be sidetracked by the discussion of how people feel about what people have said about the issue. It never gets back on track. Once derailed, it’s always thereafter about resentment and hurt feelings. 

Took time to look for publication opportunities. Most independent publishers looking for gay fiction specify lesbian fiction. Others long for Trans. Publishers peek into my files so they can specify desire for whatever is not there. 

Bully wrens sing from every branch. This is blessed. 

Footsteps on the roof. They always sound bigger than a squirrel. 

Kerstin

 

November 19, 2021

Sang for Kerstin’s memorial service at the Cathedral. She was one of ten or so full and solid artists I’ve known in my life, and a saintly person as well. Her daughter said she had great respect for me. Her beautiful banners and vestments thronged the sanctuary. 

Two young bears crossed Biltmore in front of me. They must have been on the hospital campus. They made it, but just barely. I wonder if we could build those wildlife bridges for them over the busier city streets, or teach them to use the crosswalks.

L says if J’s dad doesn’t die in the next two days they won’t be going to Israel. They’re the ones who ensnared me into the whole mess. 

Long-haired Dave from AT&T was here a 8:30 to, once again, address my Internet outage. When I got home from church it was fixed, or at least functional for the moment. Fear will go with me in this matter until I am out of the country. 

Rittenhouse not guilty on all counts. God have mercy.

As I drove to church I listened to a radio program about Asheville writers who work with children in the city schools. Children were reading the poems they had written as part of the class, poems introduced by the gushiest superlatives available to the language. The poems were, to a one, to a line, awful. My comment would have been, “How is this a poem?”  Dancing is my happy place. I like to dance, because I do that when I’m sad. My life has been hard, so I dance and I can feel better about everything. Perfectly legitimate conversation, but not on the same continent as poetry. I would have fired the “teachers” for failing to present even the most rudimentary principles of literary art. Yet the enthusiasm in the instructors’ voices was genuine, and no voice on the radio interrupted with “Now just wait a minute—”. I grew up convinced that art must be judged on its developed qualities, how good a poem is it, how skillful, how illuminating: does it increase the sum of human understanding? Is there a moment of surprise or recognition? None of that mattered to the people on the radio. They were judging poetry on the basis of the person who wrote it. Every child is genuine and needing to be encouraged, so every poem that comes out of them must be considered beautiful and brave. They didn’t say that considerations of craft or depth or metaphor were elitist, as some do; they didn’t mention them at all. I realized furthermore that I could not, at that moment, make an objective case for my side. I BELIEVE that only mindful and crafted art is worthy, but I couldn’t think of a way to prove that to a person who believes that the genuine expression of any soul is, perforce, art. It’s a faith controversy. One side says art must be good as a theorem is good, that it must prove its point; the other side says that art is automatically good if a person presents it as the testimony of his soul. I’m glad that at this exact moment I do not have to fight that fight. 

Received undelivered mail that I sent out on June 30. 

Peter Quince

 

November 18, 2021

First two hours of the morning spent connecting new printer, to expunge from my memory the HP that was, all in all, the worst purchase of my life. The new printer failed at the first three methods of connection, finally yielded to the fourth. What happened to plug it in, connect the cables, go. The man at the Staples where I took the murderous printer said “Recycling?”

“Yes. Worst piece of shit I ever bought.”

“HP” he said without looking.

Incredibly, my Internet is out again. Jimmie the cable guy solemnly swore I’d never have to deal with that again in my life. At a time when I MUST have internet to complete the work to get out of the country. Unbelievable. God probably is trying to teach me a lesson, but He never learns His, so we’re at a draw. 

Of course the printer I just installed depends on Internet connection. 

Lord, if you kick a dog and then punish him for snarling, it is your sin and not his.

Without TV, watching Rupert Everett’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream on video. Peter Quince is my double. .

 

November 17, 2021

The attic contains yet another huge cable worker, my Internet service having gone out yet again. You’d think self-preservation would incline these men to slenderness. 

Damaged my elbow while pulling the comforter over myself last night. 

Jimmy, the cable worker, couldn’t find the cause of my outage, which was somewhere outside and down the line. He just put in another cable. Hilariously, two account reps appeared at my house while he was here trying to sell me AT&T phone service, offering new services while the one I already had was down for the second time in a month. I said I’d call them back. Bobby and Rob. I gave them books. 

Old

 

November 16, 2021

Clouds outside the tiny study window. I edged the thermostat up an degree last night, unable to get warm. Finally only a hot toddy would do. 

The first word from Kelsay is that they want me to move all the lines of my poems to the left margin, I having given them half an inch indentation. As far as I know this means going to each line and backspacing them one by one, a tedium which made me seriously consider cancelling the publication. So far I’ve done three poems. It’s better in one way, though: some of my lines are so long they had to be split; the new margins allow me, in most cases to restore the original cadence. The poems, reading as I edit, are smart and dry, and unlike my other collections. Everything I’ve done has been unlike the one before, which is probably a fault, brand-wise, but out of my control.

Linda called to chat yesterday, and I confessed my unease about the Israel trip. The truth finally came out of my mouth: I don’t know how to be old. 

Listened to the recording of the 125th anniversary Evensong, ruined, I thought, by a microphone’s being right in an alto’s mouth and she pretty much all that can be heard. It was an event fully predictable. Not that she sounded bad. She sounded fine. But–

Tremendous progress on The Garden of the Bears. Fully joyful at least in that.

Evensong

 

November 15, 2021

Brilliant cold day. 

All Souls’ 125th Anniversary Evensong last night. I longed for a more festive festivity, but COVID and the Terrible Transition bit into that. But the shadowy room was full of echoes, and the spirits there were happy. 

The last few days inflammation and leg pain made me totter about like an old man. Today that is gone, or in abeyance. The search for cause and effect leaves me baffled. 

The power going on and off made working impossible earlier in the morning.

DFL

 

November 14, 2021

DFL lies behind me. It was a good experience without being a good show. Drew has a future as a composer and musician (and, now that I think of it, a patient and kind man) but I don’t think the show has a future. The guy playing Absalom pointed out that the music is sophisticated and the books and lyrics are not; it would be hard to imagine an amateur production wanting to deal with the music or a professional one wanting to deal with the book. It comes apart like a Parker House roll. In the lobby afterwards, though, at 11 PM, nobody got past the criticism, “it’s too long.” People didn’t believe me that they cut forty minutes between dress and show. I did, finally, get to do the scenes which had been left unrehearsed. Absalom startled on stage because he’d never heard my voice before. I did my own best chorus work at performance, hitting about 85% of the right notes. Everyone said the chorus sounded terrific. One takes their word for it. At one point I realized I was on the edge of falling asleep on stage. The fault was not mine. 

If consulted during the creation of the piece, I could have cured one problem in half an hour. Don’t do the full story; take a piece of it. David and Jonathan seemed to be the hot point: do that and leave the rest out. There’s material there for a dozen operas, especially if you’re going to spend your time speculating about matters ignored by the text and probably not of interest to the historical people mentioned in it. The Absalom story would be good, and how Solomon overcame his brothers to get the throne– any of that, but not all of that. 

 

November 13, 2021

Most of the revision of Bears so far has to do with taking out stuff I put in to explain matters which were best left unexplained.

 

November 12, 2021

Before I got home from rehearsal last night, the new (and very heavy) bird bath bowl had been bear-toppled and had smashed the (very expensive) planter beneath. Must re-evaluate lawn decor.

Pretty much all I could think of at dress rehearsal last night was “This is too long.” We hadn’t even vaguely gone through the show when contractual obligations with the orchestra forced us to stop. We've never once gone through the show, nor even rehearsed all the dialog scenes (which, in truth, could probably be omitted). I did get one of my two never-before-rehearsed scenes in. The other will just have to premiere opening night. 

Picked up The Garden of the Bears and began tinkering with it. The writing I did on it was so good. I wept in gratitude. 

 

November 11, 2021

Shopping at the Farmers’ Market today, I was asked twice if I were a Veteran. 

Went to Jesse Israel and bought a replacement for the bear-annihilated birdbath bowl. Could barely lift it. Imagined it sitting in the back of the car for all eternity. But, step by step, it got back into its pylon, and now supports its burden of peanuts. The jays rejoice.

If someone asked me if I were sad, I’d respond, with some surprise, “hell no.” But I do feel moments of the most piercing grief, which being both specific and unendurable, is a different thing. Grief is the emotion over which one has no control. At least I don’t. Also, it’s my reason to assert that not everything about us has to do with evolutionary necessity. 

 

November 10, 2021

Blazing day. Looked out the back window to see a heron flapping out of my garden northward. 

Started a Facebook page called The Last Poet. Couldn’t believe nobody had that name. Wiley Cash being interviewed on the radio inspired it. I’ve done almost nothing to sell my work because–absent a reading tour–I don’t know what to do. Maybe this is it.

Each time I hear DFL I like the music better. Though the libretto does contain the line “It’s all about we.” Last night’s rehearsal seemed ghastly, if better than the night before. People listening from the theater insist it sounds wonderful and that on stage you don’t get a good idea of the actual effect. I want to believe that. I do recall that from other appearances at the Wortham. I’m literally the only second bass, holding down the down part myself. Fuzzy grandpa next to me sings sometimes when the note is F–he must like F–and Jose beside him refuses to open his mouth because he can’t “hear the note.” I want to tell him “sit by me,” but that sounds jackass-y. I got most of it last night. The baritones to my right are strong, and that is helpful. The lines are repetitious, and that is helpful. Conductor/composer Drew is very patient and very musical, however many plates of spaghetti he should be given. We have one more rehearsal and I still have never rehearsed my actual lines– which are, incidentally, among the hundred or so that could be cut without harm. It’s good to be back in the Wortham. My name appears twice in the show tiles on the ceiling of the green room, once for The Normal Heart and once for Six Degrees of Separation. I managed not to point that out more than once. The kids seldom address themselves to me. I remember well that in the theater you don’t notice anyone who’s not in your age group. It’s all right. You step from one scene into another. Young David– Brendan– and I had a lively conversation on the night street walking to our cars. He had done terribly one rehearsal and fine the next, and was deservedly excited. 

Exhaustion. Achy inflammation of every joint. 

Drew says in an email: I know some of the chorus can't hear a lot on stage with the cacophony of sound that is happening, but I can hear the bass section loud and clear and you all sound fantastic! So, I am somewhat at rest. 

When I entered the front door this afternoon, Sweetboi, airborne, screamed at exactly the right second to fill the room with wild, reverberating sound. I thought for a moment he was inside. 

David and Jonathan

 

November 9, 2021

Blazing morning. Gin in cut glass. 

Rehearsal last night reminded me why I got out of the business (as minimally as I was in it) of producing theater. Heard in almost its entirety now, DFL sounds way more Broadway than I thought at first. This is good. But the rehearsal was a disaster the likes of which, had I any responsibility for it, would have kept me sleepless, and I am never sleepless. As far as I could tell, the orchestra was fine. Though David, Jonathan, and the Witch of Endor sounded quite good, none of the soloists was confident. The chorus was a disaster. My excuse is that, though I listened through the midi files and got a general flavor, I’d rehearsed about 1/5 of the music in the one rehearsal since I was invited aboard, and was literally sight-reading the rest. The print is small, most of the tempi are very fast, and I kept blowing steam on my glasses over the top of my mask. Plus, all of the baritones were absent and I was the only functioning bass. Fuzzy grandpa never makes a peep that I can hear, and the big Hispanic (whose speaking voice is glorious as Solomon) moved next to me so he could follow me. I wasn’t bad at pulling pitches from the air, and he usually (though not always) joined me a measure or so into a phrase. A consequence of this is that I blew my voice out trying to bellow. Drew scolded Young David right at the beginning for not knowing his music. He should have saved up for a more general diatribe, for though as a soloist Young David stood naked in disgrace, the rest of us foundered repeatedly. Nor did we actually get any help from the conductor/composer, who might have given us an entrance now and then. I realized eventually he would look hopefully in your direction when it came time to come in. The long baton beat the air like a threshing machine. 

The libretto is fixated on an issue which, so far as I can tell, never comes up in the bible. Jonathan ties himself in knots–in at least three arias that come to mind-- wondering if his and David’s love is unnatural or needing to be hidden. Samuel doesn’t mention this, so far as I can tell. Love between warriors probably wasn’t noticed in a warrior society, or if noticed, commended. 

In an email, the director informs me I have a speaking role, along with instructions as to how to extricate myself from the chorus to get downstage.  

Wolf'sbane

 

November 8, 2021

Purple wolf’s bane seeds arrived from Russia. Some say plant in spring; some say plant in winter, but all agree they should spend some time in the fridge. 

Though scheduled for tomorrow, the giant Mexicans arrived today to replace my pool motor. Early? Good fortune difficult to fit into one’s vision of the world. 

Got an appointment for the Covid test that Israel insists must be given just so many hours before stepping onto the plane. That was the one thing weighing most heavily on my mind, and having it–for the moment–settled was a relief. Now the NEXT thing has its chance to weigh most heavily. . . .

Revised The Christmas Count. It’s actually pretty damn good. My first big production, Break-a-leg Productions staged it at Theater Row in June, 1999. I was so proud, so clueless as how to use that start to move forward. 

Listened to the midi files for DFL. It is more coherent and better structured than one rehearsal led me to believe. It concentrates on the triangle of Michal, David, and Jonathan, though “concentrate” is an imperfect word to describe a presentation so diffuse. The music is derivative–  Sant-Saens orientalism peppered with dissonances– but the composer is still in college. I think an audience may come away satisfied. I don’t want to say it’s easy to sing, but the bass part, anyway, follows a few basic lines with minor variations. I am grateful. 

 

November 7, 2021

First frost that I noted. The late-blooming sulphur cosmos had at least a few weeks of glory.

Friday evening and Saturday devoured by Vestry meetings to rehash and organize our thoughts concerning the Parish Profile. I couldn’t detect in the others the banked fury I felt at such a staggering expenditure of time. My basic perception (and I know this to be true from my own notes in preparation for the ordeal) is that we spent ten hours arriving at a place known and sufficiently discussed before the meeting began. Our conclusions and determinations were essentially the same ten days ago, though worded differently and, by dint of wider participation, perhaps worse now. Was this to “get everyone on board”? Was this to “show the work” as they used to say in high school math classes?  Something about the process seemed to comfort people. I have my suspicions about “process.” In nature, process is necessary and majestic. In human institutions it’s nearly always a scam.  E, our facilitator, said once and implied several times that we would never do this right, never get a decent Dean, if we didn’t proceed exactly as she wanted with exactly the steps she laid before us. I assumed from the first that she’d found a commodity to sell, sold it convincingly, and our parish spent a good deal of money buying it. We bought it to avoid controversy– Oh WE didn’t do it. . . it was the PROCESS of DISCERNMENT, as though such a thing could not be itself perverse.  But it was an ordeal and, in the end, not necessary, and hurtful because it prolonged a struggle which went on much too long as it was. I don’t imagine E thinks of it as a scam. She knows she has to keep tight hold on the reins to keep out any critique of her sacred process. I was Cassandra, unheeded, feeling every grind of the slow wheel as it made its way crab-wise across the desert 

Having finally an in-person meeting was a different story, informative and invigorating. It’s better to be able to see a person. I think the terrible quarrel that led to three of them demanding my resignation and one of them attempting to resign because they didn’t receive it would not have happened had we been face-to-face. It turns out that my great and implacable enemy D is, though a bit of an adolescent, companionable and funny and possessed of a mind that did not glaze over with exhaustion near the end of things, as mine did. I liked him. That outcome would not have been foreseeable had we not met face-to-face. 

After church, this day must be spent listening to practice files for David: the Faces of Love. We perform in six days and I’ve had one rehearsal, covering maybe 1/5 of the monumental score. Were it Bach or Schubert, maybe I could sight-read. Not this. 

Sang Lauridson this AM. Made two mistakes I”ve never made in 10 years’ acquaintance with the piece. 

Planted poppies I’d forgotten I’d ordered, Sweetboi screamed at me as I worked. 

 

November 4, 2021

Finished the revision of The Frankenstein Rubrics by the gray light of dawn. I sobbed when I finished. I suppose that’s a good sign. I can say that few pieces have been more thoroughly transformed by the revision process. 

All yesterday the poems of Marvell ran through my head. 

The crash in the dark last night was a bear finishing off the pottery bird feeder. Didn’t even bother to pick it up today. Maybe he’ll come and cart it away. It would be the polite thing to do. 

Read in an article about Stephen Crane that he was the sort of artist who caused controversy without intending to, without noticing he was doing so, and, when confronted with the brouhaha he caused, stood genuinely astonished. This is also a perfect description of me. 

Today is the birthday of J-- my first buddy who didn’t live exactly next door–a date which I remember for the last sixty years. When I learned about election day, I assumed it and J’s birthday had something to do with each other. We were inseparable until Little League came along. I remember standing at the edge of the woods saying, “I think you like baseball better than me.” He answered, “Yes, I do.” I never again put anyone to the test. Some lessons are learned quite early. 

Maud’s eccentricity deepens. She now hides in the bathtub, drinks out of the toilet. When I tried to cuddle her this morning, she ran and hid behind the bathtub. One eats the same dish forever.

 November 2, 2021

Third day without Internet. It’s surprisingly debilitating, I suppose in part because it’s accidental rather than purposeful. I intended no such austerity at this point. No TV to rest before after a jangled day; no radio, no Alexa to tell me the time or the news, no way to research anything as I write, no access to pornography, no way to submit a manuscript or keep in touch with such society as one has on line. Had to relearn the use of my video player, and to wonder again at my choice of videos.  AT&T promises to come today.  

My first (their third or so) rehearsal of DFL last night at All Souls. I see why they invited me, for through the evening I heard not a peep out of the other second bass, though beside me sat a strong baritone who helped when we had the same notes. I’m as good a reader as the others, so that was an anxiety relieved. One Brunhilda-ish soprano tops the ensemble, piercing even from the far side of the room. The composer/conductor is stick-thin and possesses the energy (and concentration) of a squirrel. My question to the universe is why do conductors ALWAYS think of a million things to say AFTER the pitches have been given?  How is the piece? I heard just what I heard last night. It’s very long– the score 215 pages–and the bit of the libretto I managed to see was flat-footed, not the biblical text, but a paraphrase many shades paler, likely depending on the music to raise the level of interest. The music is interesting to sing. My guess is that it will be trying to an audience, who will endure it for the sake of facing the “new” head on, rather than any hope of actual enjoyment. I may be wrong. What we sang last night was– the composer called it “crunchy”; the audience will call it “ugly”– dissonance piled on dissonance toward no end that I fathom at this point. The composer/conductor spent fifteen minutes parsing out a chord that needed to be parsed out because there was no logic to it, no aesthetic, just a big blatty sound needing to be explained. Luckily for singers, it is quite repetitious. You could lose forty pages (and you probably want to lose forty pages) by taking out variations and recapitulations. But, this is one night. It may all click into place. I am, though, tired of composers who allow themselves to imagine difficulty somehow takes the place of vision. 

Another thing that must be said is that I enjoyed the rehearsal, enjoyed meeting new people, enjoyed doing something– performing a new piece–I haven’t done in a while. I felt healthier walking out in the dark toward my car. Made myself a hot toddy, watched Bing Crosby flicks, and went to bed. The Lincoln’s Birthday blackface in Holiday Inn sends racial signals that no one in the 21st century can read. 

2 PM: Big handsome Paul Bunyan-resembling guy rooting around in the attic, trying to splice the optical cable the squirrels have apparently gnawed through. Jake the AT&T guy grew up in Cruso, the site of the terrible floods, but his dad’s land lay high enough above the river to survive.

 

October 31, 2021

Halloween. 

Choir Camp weekend. When I got to the turn off from 40, a blazing rainbow stood over Canton, and remained a good twenty minutes, pure and dazzling. Of course I made a wrong turn, which got me into Cruso, where I was able to see the devastation wrought by recent floods. The beds of the Pigeon River in all its branches was scoured white, the great boulders strewn about. Houses and sheds lay stacked by the roadside, now but piles of splinters. Among those splinters, a great number of TRUMP signs. This should be some kind of lesson, but I doubt that it is. With a brimming bowl of blasphemies I got back on track, made it to choir camp. I hate Lake Logan without being able to say why. Maybe the sunken town cries out to me. I note the curious lack of wildlife around there– the lake should teem with fowl but does not. Something’s amiss. Nice chat in the next cabin over after Saturday rehearsal. In the middle of Sunday rehearsal my cup ran over and I left before mass, returning here to find that my WiFi is out and even an hour on the phone with the helpful Indian lady did not get me back on track. Technician comes on Tuesday, so she says. A dead bear lay beside the roadside near Canton. I allowed myself to think that it was either a bear or a gorilla. A hill slopes up from the dining hall at Lake Logan to the practice area, and when I had to walk that hill going at the pace of others (and not my ambling self) I was breathless and unwell. This bodes badly for Israel, where we will be doing much walking and I can’t expect everyone to keep my pace. Don’t know what to do. I am trying not to think of this as, all in all, a wretched weekend. Feel shaky now, as though I’d run a long way. 

 

October 30, 2021

Awakened with the first actual bellyache I recall from my adult life. Considered that no one would believe I was actually ill, but just found a way to get out of choir camp. I blame bean dip. Vivid dreams, fleeing away from consciousness now like blown leaves. Thinking Claire Claremont should be in my play.